The Silent Blade
by JadziaCee
Summary: Altair finds himself disobeying the Brotherhood again: What compels him to act the way he does and what has happened in his past to drive him down this path of destruction?
1. Prologue

Working title for now: The Silent Blade

Warnings:

I do not own Altair or any other characters in Assassin's Creed.

I have taken full creative licence and liberty regarding certain events in the game, certain tenants of the Assassin's Creed, the Hashashins/Order of Assassins and tweaked certain historical information to fit my story and purposes.

This story contains spoilers for parts of the game, and although it does not follow the game's storyline, it borrows heavily from certain parts.

Consider this an Assassin's Creed AU.

Rated M for violence and lemons.

Prologue:

Night falls over the city of Acre. A lone church bell rings… slowly... methodically… signalling to the citizens the nightly curfew. The people in the street below begin to scatter… quickly walking back to their homes as the merchants close their market stalls for the evening.

High above the town, perched on a ledge overlooking the streets, sits a lone figure. Silent...still…not moving a muscle. His back curled, his body hunched over as his leather boots just barely settle on the wooden beam he sits on. His gloved hands touch lightly onto the wood to help him keep his balance. His breathing, slow and steady, is the only motion he makes, his white robe rising and falling with each breath he takes. A peaked hood covers his head and leaves his eyes and face mostly in shadow. Only his nose and mouth are visible… a slight shadow of stubble peppers his upper lip and chin.

The church bell rings again. This time when he looks down, he sees the streets are almost empty, save for a handful of guards dutifully walking the streets to ensure the citizens obey the curfew and peace is kept.

An eagle soars overhead, letting out a shrill cry, looking to land on the perch that the hooded figure has claimed for his own. The man looks up and then slowly unfurls his body to stand on the balls of his feet. He holds his arms out to either side for balance. His long white robe blows in the slight warm evening wind. The red sash tied around his waist flutters at his knees. He shifts his weight slightly and the leather belt holding his throwing knives creaks from the movement. His long sword nestled in the scabbard attached to his left hip, clanks in the still night air. He places his left hand on the hilt to silence it.

Without another glance down, he takes a tall leap into the air, arcing his body headfirst to the ground. His arms held out behind him, he dives straight down, his feet pointing to the sky. The wind rushes around his body, licking at his face, blowing his robe behind him as he falls. Then, a few stories from the ground, he flips his body forward, almost doing a half-somersault in the air, so now he is falling in a sitting position, his bottom and legs parallel to the ground, slowing his descent just slightly.

With a soft whoosh, he lands into a pile of hay sitting in a wagon below the tower he just jumped from. He peeks out from underneath the hay pile to make sure there are no guards patrolling nearby, before he jumps out. His leather feet barely touch the cobble stoned road when he is off and running. Hay flies off his body, falling out of his robe, as he leaps and jumps his way up to the roof of a nearby building. Nary taking a second to ensure his footing at each ledge, windowpane, and brick, he moves swiftly and silently through the town. Only the slight clank of his weaponry giving any notice to his movements.

Finally he pauses on the top of a building, catching his balance near the edge, he slowly looks over to the ground below. A soldier stands at the back of the deserted alleyway; but this is no ordinary soldier. Instead of the usual brigandine armour and chain mail coifs the Acre guards typically wear, this soldier is decked out in a full suit of chain mail, covered only by a white tabard down to his knees with a red stylized cross on the front. A long sword hangs in a scabbard attached at his hip and a red steel bucket-style helmet sits on his head, covering his face with only small slits for his eyes. The helmet shows much battle damage – dents and scrapes cover the top and sides, with much of the red paint worn off.

On the ground behind the soldier sits a large black chest, locked presumably, and his upside-down teardrop shaped shield, white with a red cross in the middle, sits leaning on the ground next to it.

"Templar…" hisses the hooded figure under his breath. Reflexively he flexes his left hand, the leather bracer creaking around his wrist, and with a soft "ssshhhhkkk" sound his hidden blade pops out from underneath his hand. With another small curl of his fingers, the blade slides back out of sight.

Glancing to his right, he notices a ladder leading down from the rooftop to the alley below. Shaking his head slightly, he forgoes the ladder… perching on the edge of the roof; he barely hesitates before leaping down onto the Templar below. Tucking his legs up underneath him, he flies down through the air.

The Templar's back is to the hooded figure, but a slight breeze rises up at the exact moment he pounces. The Templar turns his head, looking up…his mouth opens in a large silent "O"… seeing the robed man leaping onto him from above. He sees the left hand reaching out to him, the cold-steel blade erupting from the palm of the hand, and the missing ring finger where the blade cleanly seeks passage. 'Assassin…!' the Templar forms the thought in his mind, but no sound comes forth from his mouth except a gurgling moan, as the blade slices into his neck, cutting through his jugular in a spray of blood.

The Assassin jerks the blade upward further cutting the Templar's flesh to make sure the job is done and then pulls his hand back. The Templar drops to the ground in a large heap, the blood running down his neck onto the clean white cloth of his tabard. The red fluid leaving stains the same colour as the red cross in the centre of his chest. The Assassin wipes the wet blade on the Templar's tabard, and then sheathes it back to its hiding spot inside his bracer.

Working swiftly before the dead body is discovered by the other guards, the Assassin searches the Templar's clothing, quickly finding what he is looking for. A small steel key is hiding inside the Templar's leather boot. The Assassin palms the key and then turns to the locked chest sitting on the ground. Crouching down beside it, he inserts the key into the chest and turns it. The lid of the chest effortlessly opens. The Assassin reaches inside and picks up what he had come for; reaching around behind him he places it inside one of the small pouches attached to the back of his belt.

Standing back up again, he quickly surveys the alleyway… still empty. No guards were alerted by the silent scuffle. In a flash, the Assassin turns, and leaps up the wall… bounding over the rooftops his white robes flowing behind him… invisible… silent… effortless... he disappears into the night.


	2. Chapter 1

Working title for now: The Silent Blade

Warnings:

I do not own Altair or any other characters in Assassin's Creed.

I have taken full creative licence and liberty regarding certain events in the game, certain tenants of the Assassin's Creed, the Hashashins/Order of Assassins and tweaked certain historical information to fit my story and purposes.

This story contains spoilers for parts of the game, and although it does not follow the game's storyline, it borrows heavily from certain parts.

Consider this an Assassin's Creed AU.

Rated M for violence and lemons.

* * *

**Chapter 1:**

The small town of Masyaf is bustling in the early hours of the morning as the townspeople make their way out of their homes to shop for food at the merchant's stalls, water and groom their horses and wash their laundry in the near-by river. The Hashashin's fortress, a tall, gray-stone castle, where Al-Mualim, the Master of the Assassin's, dwells, stands high on top of the hill overlooking the town. The fortress also houses the training grounds for the entire novice assassin's.

Guards keep their post at the tall wooden gates to the town. It's an unusual arrangement the townspeople have with the Hashashins. The town guards keep any outsiders from entering the town, while the town itself provides a front for keeping the location of the Hashashin headquarters a secret from the outside world. While the Assassins provide the gold and means for the townspeople to maintain their adequate existence in Masyaf.

A white stallion appears on the edge of the horizon; a white clothed figure sitting in the saddle. The guards at the front gates stand up straighter and squint their eyes, tensing and gripping their swords, ready for battle in case this is a stranger who does not belong.

The horse gallops down the hill leading to Masyaf, but as it gets closer to the town, the rider pulls back on the reins. He murmurs a soft, low "Whoa…" and the horse slows down to a steady walk. The guards release their grip on their swords as they recognize the horse and rider.

"Altair," one of the guards greets the Assassin, standing up straighter.

Altair, his face hidden in his hood, nods his head to the guard, but does not say a word as he rides on by. The guards open the wooden gate, allowing the Assassin to enter the town. Altair rides through the town, slowly making his way up the hill to the large fortress. When he reaches the entrance to the castle, Altair dismounts his horse, loosely tying the reins around a wooden post. He walks into the wide-open foyer, where a handful of gray-hooded assassins are standing guard. "The Master has been waiting for you," one of the apprentices says to Altair.

Altair walks by, not acknowledging the apprentice, but making his way up the staircase to the Master's library. Al-Mualim, clad in a white robe, with a black hooded overcoat, is standing behind a large table, looking out the window behind him, down into the training arena below. "Altair," he says, his voice low, but his words harsh. "Where have you been?!"

Altair stands before the Master, his head bowed, his eyes looking down to the floor. He does not answer.

"Altair," Al-Mualim asks again. "Answer me!"

"Master," Altair starts, softly. "I have just ridden from Acre. I needed to go there. To seek out another Templar. I have found more information…."

"Silence!" Al-Mualim cuts him off. "I have already forbidden you from this vengeance that you seek, yet you defy me every chance you get. Why must you persist on this disobedience?"

"I am getting closer," Altair explains. "I must ride to Jerusalem next. I know I will find the one responsible there."

Al-Mualim reaches out a hand and quickly slaps Altair across the face. "Stay your tongue boy!" Al-Mualim yells. "This insubordination is not fitting behaviour of a master Assassin. You have taken advantage of the freedoms afforded you. I am now forbidding you to leave the fortress until I can think of a suitable punishment for your wickedness."

Altair, holding onto the stinging red flesh on the side of his face, opens his mouth to speak but then thinks better of it. Instead he lets out a sigh, "Yes Master," he says. He turns and strides harshly out of the library and down the stairs to his personal quarters.

Closing the door behind him, Altair begins to pace around his room. Then as if remembering all of a sudden, he opens the pouch on the back of his belt and pulls the small curled up piece of parchment he had stolen from the Templar's chest back in Acre. Releasing the scabbard from his waist, his long sword falls to the stone floor with a loud clang, then Altair settles down onto the cushions and blankets on the mat on the floor to read the letter.

_Sibrand – _

_The port blockade must be completed on time to ensure the European reinforcements cannot make their way to Acre. Hold fast …the Assass'aiun will not track you on your ship. _

_I will be attending Majd Addin's funeral in Jerusalem 5 days hence. Ensure the port blockade of Acre is completed by then._

_We will ride to Arsuf after the funeral to ensure King Richard's peace treaty negotiations with the Saracen go as planned. _

_I will send a messenger at that time._

_-Robert_

Altair crumbles the parchment in his hand and lets out a cry of anger. He had a feeling Robert de Sable was behind it all. He knew he should have killed him in Solomon's Temple when he had the chance. Closing his eyes, Altair lays back against the cushions to get some rest, all the while his mind whirring with thoughts of how he would make his way to Jerusalem to end Robert's life once and for all.


	3. Chapter 2

A/N – Rating changed to T for now

A/N – Rating changed to T for now, all other disclaimers hold true from the first chapter.

Thank you to Bloutjie for my first review. I really appreciate it. It's nice to know I have at least one reader looking forward to more installments. 

I work full-time so my only real opportunity to write is on the weekend. So although my chapters may be shorter (some upcoming ones will be longer), I can usually have about two written each weekend. 

Chapter 2 –

There was a strict creed the Assassin's had to follow in order to move from the uninitiated up to master assassin: The tenants of this creed included "Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent", "Hide in plain sight", and "Never compromise the Brotherhood." Altair seemed to struggle with all three of these tenants but the toughest struggle Altair had was his vow of celibacy.

Once an assassin became initiated and all throughout their training, while they were an active assassin out doing missions for the Grand Master, they had to remain chaste and pure. It was believed that the pleasures of the flesh and the feminine wiles of a woman were only cause for distraction. It was a danger and apt to get you killed if you succumbed to the whims of the flesh. Assassins had important jobs to do and when given a target and a mission, they were to focus on only that deed at hand. They had to practice self-restraint and learn to have control over their bodies. It wasn't until assassins retired from active duty that they were relieved of their vow of celibacy.

Normally retirement was brought on due to severe injuries that left them unable to work in the field or simply old age. These retired assassins usually took up duty working as Bureau Chiefs in many of the major cities in the Holy Land. But most assassins fought to the death and inevitably gave their life while on a mission. Old age or retirement was often thought to be a bit of a joke, what with the constant danger in their line of work. It was the belief that the assassins who followed the creed and kept themselves pure would be given the gift of 72 virgins in Heaven.

Many assassins came into the flock as young boys, training from a very young age, but many also joined when they were in their later teens or even their 20's. Some had already had a taste of the pleasures of the flesh, but were willing to take the vow of celibacy. Many assassins used their white robes and outfits to blend in with the scholars, priests and monks in the cities in order to move around without arousing suspicions… what was ironic was that with their common vow of celibacy, the assassins had more in common with the monks than most people knew.

Altair was one of the assassins who had entered the Brotherhood as a young child at the age of six. But of course as Altair grew up among the Brotherhood, his own natural curiosity soon sought to overtake his chaste vow. The few women Altair had contact with were workers within the fortress. The young girls who cooked and cleaned for the Brotherhood and took care of their laundry. The Brotherhood were practically worshiped among the townsfolk of Masyaf and it was an honour for any girl to be chosen to provide servitude to the Hashashin.

When Altair was 22, there was one servant girl in particular, Hanan, who was chosen to tend to Altair's needs whenever he returned to the town from his missions, bringing him food, cleaning the blood from his robes and bandaging his wounds. Hanan was a tall, slim Muslim girl with long dark hair and dark eyes, and soft carob coloured skin.

Altair, although appreciative of the assistance that Hanan offered him, treated her with a coldness and aloofness; always aware of his vow and the need to stay focused on his true mission. Hanan though, did not seem to be discouraged when Altair brushed her off. She continued to do her best to make him comfortable and make sure his hunger and thirst were sated, but always persisted with questions about Altair, his missions, and the other Assassins, any chance she got.

One day she entered his room after he had just returned from a mission. Altair undid his belt, and placed his weapons, on a near-by table, leaving his leather bracers and hidden blade strapped on. Hanan placed before him a freshly laundered robe and a platter of fresh fruits and bread and a jug of water. Altair turned his back to the girl, ignoring her presence, and pulled his blood-stained robe over his head. Hanan watched in awe at the lean muscles in his back and arms slightly rippled as he dropped the robe onto the floor and turned back around to face her. Altair stood before her, wearing just his pants and boots, his skin covered in a handful of fresh wounds, a little blood seeping to the surface. The cuts criss-crossed on top of older wounds, raised white scar tissue littered his chest, back and arms.

"Water," Altair asked. Hanan poured him a cup and handed it to him. He took it from her and drank, while she watched on curiously. Noticing him holding it in his left hand, she observed his missing ring finger. "Why is it that you are missing a finger?" she asked.

Altair did not answer. "Did you lose it in battle?" she probed.

Altair put his cup down on the table and stepped toward her, holding up his left hand. He flexed his fingers and his hidden blade emerged from his palm. Hanan held a hand up to her mouth, hiding her surprise, letting out a small gasp.

"Did that hurt?" she continued her interrogation. Altair touched the blade carefully with his other hand, caressing the cold, hard steel, a darkness behind his eyes.

"I gave my finger in order to have the privilege of wearing the silent blade," explained Altair. He flexed his left hand again and the blade slid back into its sheath.

Hanan reached out and touched the stump of his finger. "Do not all assassins use the silent blade?" she asked. "No," Altair responded. "Only those who have reached the rank of Master Assassin have the honour."

He turned away from Hanan, unbuckling his bracer and setting the blade on the table. Hanan observed a small tattoo on Altair's lower back, an upside down stylized – V. "What is that marking you have?" she asked. "A tattoo?"

Altair turned to face Hanan, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. "Is that a mark to identify you as an Assassin? Do all Assassins have one?" she continued to ask.

"You speak too much girl," he said. "You ask far too many questions that you have no business knowing the answers to." Hanan blushed and took a step back, averting her eyes downward briefly. "I just… I just am curious," she replied.

"Well you can be curious somewhere else at this time," said Altair, dismissing her from the room. Hanan nodded her head and walked slowly out of the room.

She proceeded down the hallway to the fortress library, where she scrawled some notes on a piece of parchment. She reached into the aviary kept by the window and took hold of one of the messenger pigeons. Attaching the note securely around the bird's neck she cooed softly and released the bird out the window to take the information to its intended recipient.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N** – Yes, I know Malik is not the Bureau Chief of Damascus.

* * *

**Chapter 3 –**

"Altair!" a loud voice breaks through Altair's sleep. "Altair!" the voice calls again.

Altair sits up from the pile of blankets on the floor, letting out a loud yawn and rubbing his eyes. Blinking steadily, his gaze focuses on the doorway, where a young novice assassin stands. "The Grand Master demands to see you," the novice declares.

"Yes, thank you," says Altair, making a shooing motion with his hand. "You can go now."

"Now!" cries the novice.

Altair adjusts his hood back over his head, disguising the rolling of his eyes in disgust, and gets up from the floor. 'How dare this younger brother speak to me this way!' he thinks to himself. But he stays his tongue for fear of Al-Mualim's impending punishment. Straightening his robes, he walks over to the novice and pushes past him abruptly, shoving his way through the doorway.

He makes his way upstairs to Al-Mualim's chamber. "You wish to see me Master?" he asks, entering the room.

Al-Mualim gets up from his chair and walks over to Altair. "I have done a lot of thinking and I have finally decided on a suitable punishment for your misdoings." The Grand Master begins to pace back and forth in front of where Altair stands.

"But Master," Altair starts. "I don't understand. I've been investigating. I'm so close... the answer is among the Templars. In Jerusalem. Don't you want to find out who placed Hanan among us?"

Al-Mualim rips the short blade from the sheath on Altair's back and holds it to Altair's throat. "I told you never to utter that name again!" he bellows, the blade digging into Altair's skin.

Altair's boots scrape against the ground as he attempts to back-pedal, but Al-Mualim holds the knife firm. Altair swallows hard, feeling the knife catch his adam's apple, nicking his flesh and causing a drop of blood to roll down his neck. "But…" he stutters.

"You refuse to follow the tenants of our creed," explains Al-Mualim. "Time and time again you disobey. Instead, choosing to follow your own whim. That girl almost got us all killed! You put the Brotherhood at risk."

"Yes Master," Altair gasps. "But I served my punishment for that… I felt the blood on my own hands. I've been tainted and can never be clean again. I am haunted. I seek to find justice."

"Justice? You do not seek justice. Instead you seek revenge, vengeance! This is not what the Brotherhood has taught you!" Al-Mualim lowers the blade, releasing Altair from his grasp. He drops the blade to the ground and turns his back to Altair, looking out the window and holding his hands out to the sky above. "Where did I fail you Altair? Where did I fail you?"

Altair wraps his hands around his throat, stemming the trickle of blood, and catching his breath. "Master,.. I do not understand." Altair is confused, seeing his Master so irresolute.

Al-Mualim turns to face Altair. "Go," he says. "Get yourself patched up and then ride for Damascus. You will be assisting Malik at the Bureau for the time being. You are no good to me here right now and you are too much of a risk to be in the field on a mission. Malik already has his orders for what to do with you when you arrive."

"What nonsense is this?!" Altair exclaims. "I need to ride for Jerusalem before time is too late!"

"You will do best to heed my orders," says Al-Mualim. "Malik is expecting you and if you do not arrive, do not think that I won't send your Brothers out to find you and end your life. I spared your life once when you were disobedient. I will not be so foolish again."

"As you wish Master," Altair responds, gathering his blade from the floor and leaving the Master's chamber.


	5. Chapter 4

To Bloutjie - Thank you so much for your feedback, hope you enjoy the next segment. I'm hoping to have two more chapters out by next weekend. Enjoy!

And to everyone else who is reading, based on the reader traffic, hope you can add a comment or feedback or review. Let me know what you like or don't like. :)

* * *

**Chapter 4** -

1 year prior

Altair flew through the countryside on his white stallion, making haste for Masyaf trying to reach the village gates before the sun rose and his cover of darkness disappeared. With all the strength he could muster, he dug his heels into the flank of the horse and let out a loud, guttural "Yeeaaah!" whipping it with the leather reins. The horse picked up speed, its hooves clattering on the loose stones on the dirt road.

Holding onto his leg and side, Altair did his best to keep his balance as the horse galloped along. From time to time he looked down, seeing the stain of blood on his robe growing ever larger the further he pressed on. He was tempted to make camp in the countryside, to stop and try to bandage his wound, but he was concerned the soldiers following him would find him or that if he did stop to rest, he would never be able to get up again. Instead, he pressed on, hoping he would reach Masyaf before he bled out.

His assassination in Acre had not gone exactly as planned. His investigation had revealed that Garnier de Naplouse was a questionable doctor who seemed more intent on experimenting on his patients than actually treating them and that he received his supply of patients from a slave trader in Jerusalem. Altair had attempted to infiltrate the hospital where Garnier worked by working his way through the hallways of patients with a group of scholars. However the seemingly infinite number of nut-jobs that also roamed the hallways made his job difficult. Two feral, crazy men pulled him out of the pack of scholars and began to push him around, banging him into walls. That wasn't so much the trouble, Altair could easily have dispatched with the men, but he could not risk doing it without drawing attention to himself.

Rather than give up and come back another day, Altair took the risk of stabbing one of the crazy men. This set off the entire hospital and guards came leaping to attention. Altair ran through the hallways, with a swarm of guards hot on his heels. Garnier's attention was absorbed with his patients and his work, and Altair was lucky enough to round a corner of the hospital and find Garnier working and bent over a patient. Just as Altair popped his hidden blade, Garnier got spooked and whirled around. Altair assassinated the man as ordered, but not before four guards jumped him and one plunged their longsword through Altair's thigh and the other sliced him across the ribs.

Altair managed to get away, leaping across rafters and over the town gates and onto his horse. But the guards were right behind, following him on horses of their own. He did his best to ride a half-hazard trail, with lots of dead ends and backtracking, hoping to throw the guards off his scent. Although he felt like he must have been leaving a trail of blood all the way behind him.

By the time his horse made it to the gates of Masyaf, Altair was slumped over in the saddle, barely holding onto consciousness. The guards at the gate immediately called for help when they recognized Altair and his horse. They carried Altair to his room in the fortress and laid him down on his sleeping mat.

A Doctor was called to tend to Altair's wounds and he arrived at Altair's room with Hanan at his side.

Hanan's stomach felt like it was in her throat when she saw Altair's white robes soaked in crimson blood. Hanan had seen Altair wounded in battle before and he often came back with blood on his clothing, but never to this extent.

Dr. Zaheer worked quickly to remove Altair's belt and weapons and then began to work on his hooded robes, while Hanan prepared a basin of hot water and a soft cloth. Much of the blood had already clotted, causing the robes to stick to the wound. Altair cried out in pain and sat up, as Zaheer worked to free the clothing from the clotted blood.

"We must work quickly to get you bandaged so you do not lose any more blood," explained the Dr. "You need to settle down."

"Lie back," said Hanan soothingly, wiping the wet cloth across Altair's brow, and helping him to lie back on the cushions. Her hands were warm on his cold, clammy skin. She could feel him shivering, his muscular arms tense, he was in shock.

Altair shook his head and grimaced in pain. He bit his lip, drawing blood. He was an Assassin. He was used to pain, to injury, but he had never been hurt like this before. He tried to remain stoic, to push back against the pain. He struggled against Hanan and the Dr., fighting to remain conscious, even as the darkness crept over his eyes.

"I'm going to give you something to put you to sleep," said Dr. Zaheer. He ground up a white powder and placed it in a chalice with a small amount of wine.

"Here drink this," said Hanan, holding the cup to Altair's mouth. He turned his head to the side, spilling some of the wine down his chest. Hanan's eyes widened at the sight of the deep purple liquid dripping down Altair's lean, muscular chest and abdomen. She involuntarily licked her lips and then caught control of herself. She grabbed Altair's chin in her hand and forced his face to the cup. "Drink!" she commanded. Altair took a sip of the liquid and then laid his head down on the cushion. Hanan held the cup over his mouth and poured the remaining wine down his throat. Altair coughed and spat, fighting back, but then the drug quickly began to take effect and he settled down into a deep sleep.

Hanan used a cloth to wipe the residue of the wine from Altair's lips, wondering to herself that if the good Dr. wasn't there would she dared to have used her own tongue to clean up the wine instead. A heated blush rose to her cheeks at her thoughts.

Shaking her head as if to shake her fantasies from her mind, Hanan turned to Altair's pouches that lay on the floor still attached to his belt where the Dr. had thrown them. She bent over and opened the clasp on one of the pouches. Rummaging through the contents, she found some meagre rations, a few coins and some healing salve. Before she could search the other pouch, the Dr's voice reminded her where she was and of the task at hand.

"Hand me that knife girl," Zaheer said, pointing to Altair's shortblade lying sheathed on the floor. Hanan immediately removed her hands from Altair's belongings and picked up the heavy weapon. The steel was cold in her hand. She gave it to the Dr. who used the knife to cut through the rest of Altair's robes and pants, removing the rest of his clothing.

A deep, penetrating wound gouged through Altair's right thigh and it was still trickling blood onto the floor. "Hold this against the wound, use lots of pressure," said the Dr, handing a swaddle of clean cloth to Hanan. "I need to bandage up his other wound." Hanan pressed the cloth against Altair's leg, aware of just how close her hands were to his groin. She had averted her eyes when the Dr. had finally removed all of Altair's clothing. Although she had been helping Altair bandage his wounds for two years now, all of his injuries had been minor scrapes and cuts, mostly on his back or legs or face. She had never had to be in his presence while he was fully disrobed.

Zaheer busied himself applying salve and a bandage to the cut across Altair's ribs, while Hanan watched the Dr's hands work quickly, she saw the other scars and scrapes on Altair's chest that she had helped heal over the years. Her gaze moved downward over his tight abdomen and the dark trail of hair underneath his navel that led even lower. She snuck a glance at Altair's manhood between his legs. She felt her face grow even hotter, along with a small fiery heat that began in her lower belly.

"The wound will not stop bleeding," said the Dr., observing the staunch of blood staining the white cloths crimson underneath Hanan's hands. " I need to sew it closed. Fetch me a needle."

Hanan released her grip on the cloths, allowing the Dr. to observe the puncture wound, while she retrieved a steel needle and sinew from the Dr. bag. Dr. Zaheer stitched up the wound on Altair's thigh and then bandaged it tightly. "The wound will need to be drained every three days and the dressings changed daily. Make sure he gets plenty of fluids. It will be many weeks before he will be up and walking again. Please call for me if there are any problems," explained the Dr. as he packed up his belongings and then left the room.

Hanan quickly fetched a blanket and covered Altair's naked body so the Assassin could have some modesty now that his injuries had been tended to. She sat down on the floor next to Altair and wiped his face with a cool, wet cloth. She would not leave his side that night, nor the day after that or the day after that.

For a week, Hanan sat by Altair's side, changing his bandages, applying more salve to his wounds, and wetting his lips with water as he slumbered the whole time. Throughout his sleep Altair mumbled cryptic words about Templars and Eden and cried out from time to time. On the seventh day a fever ran coursing through his body, his wounds oozed fiery red, and his flesh burned with a terrible heat. Hanan called for Dr. Zaheer but he said he could do nothing more for the Assassin and said the infection had to run it's course. He changed the stitches on Altair's leg wound and applied a stronger salve medicine and then left.

Hanan had no choice but to remove the blankets from Altair's body and attempt a sponge bath to try to cool him down. Altair tossed and turned in his sleep, his eyelids fluttering, his hair soaked with sweat. His entire body burned with fever. When Hanan touched his skin, she felt like her fingers were being burned in a hot flame. She did not know if Altair would even survive the night.

On the tenth day the fever broke and Altair finally woke from his slumber. When he awoke, Hanan was curled up on the floor asleep near his side. He opened his eyes and wearily looked around the room. He attempted to speak but choked on his dry throat and parched lips. Hanan heard Altair gasping and immediately sat up. She cried out in surprise, "Let me fetch you some water." She filled a cup from a nearby bucket of water and held it to Altair's mouth. He drank greedily, gulping down the water. Hanan filled another cup and then another, before Altair was sated.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Altar laid back down against the cushions. "You live," Hanan exclaimed.

"I live," Altair repeated her words softly. Then he looked around the room and met Hanan's gaze. "Did you stay with me? All this time?" he asked.

"I was by your side for 10 days," Hanan replied. "We did not know if you would make it."

"Well thank you," said Altair, laying his head back down on the pillows. "You saved my life and for that I am grateful. But now I must rest." He closed his eyes again and quickly drifted off into slumber.


End file.
